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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27531460">Chaotic Jazz</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo'>standbygo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fleabag (TV), Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Dating, Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Other, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Sexting, Texting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 02:54:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,942</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27531460</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Fleabag is still recovering from heartbreak when she meets John Watson. What began as a potential quick fling turns into something much deeper for her, for John, and even for Sherlock.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fleabag (Fleabag)/John Watson, Fleabag/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>99</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>100</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Girl from Ipanema</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Takes place after Fleabag S2 and Sherlock S4, so spoilers for both.</p><p>This is not a WIP, but is fully written. I will post a new chapter every week on Wednesdays or Thursdays. Chapter titles are jazz song titles. </p><p>Thank you so much to my beta, @PipMer!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Abstinence is boring. Grief is boring. Healing is boring.</p><p>The guy who’s just wandered into the café is <em> so </em> not boring.</p><p>Surely I deserve a little break, right? It’s been months now. Months where I’ve trained myself not to think about him, at least not quite as much. I try not to think of his arms (his arms!) and his neck (his beautiful neck!) How his arms looked when they were around me, how the back of his neck looked when he was sleeping in my bed.</p><p>I try not to think about him. Sometimes I succeed, for whole minutes at a time. Last week, I think there was an hour in there. Mind you, I was tallying up the taxes for the café, but a <em> whole hour</em>.</p><p>I especially try not to think of him saying, “It’ll pass.”</p><p>He lied.</p><p>Or at least, he didn’t say how long it would take.</p><p>I still fucking love him. Damn it.</p><p>I’m not interested in looking for love. I went up against God for love, and lost. So. Done with that for the time being, thank you.</p><p>But my God, I miss a good fuck. An orgasm that someone else gives me.</p><p>At the same time, I don’t want to go back to that time when I was crazy over Mum’s death, over Boo’s death, fucking anything that stopped long enough to say yes. Hell, even Joe from the café was starting to look appealing, and he’s like eighty.</p><p>I don’t want to fuck with anyone who also wants to fuck me over.  Anyone who will fuck my pussy then fuck with my head. Done with that. Thank you.</p><p>I could do with a good squaring away, then we shake hands at the door and all’s well.</p><p>The question is, is the short blond guy the one for that? Problem is, you don’t know if someone’s going to be a bastard until it’s too late, and then you’ve got a bastard on your hands. So. Bastard-detector on full blast, and smile fetchingly.</p><p>He’s wandering around, looking at all the pictures of the guinea pigs with this little half smile on his face. He’s either genuinely amused, or he’s checking for emergency exits. He must hear my fetching smile, because he comes over to the cash. I’m standing there in my pinny and trying to look helpful and ‘come hither’ and ‘don’t fuck with me’ all at once.</p><p>“Hi,” he says.</p><p>Nice start. He’s a bit older than I first thought but he’s not Joe at least. Eye bags, but the eyes holding them up are a brilliant blue. Bastard’s eyes? Not sure yet. He’s only said one word so far, volley back.</p><p>“Hey,” I say. “Can I get you something?”</p><p>If he asks for my number and then asks for a coffee, level one bastard. Coffee first, then number immediately after, level two bastard, e.g. ‘Cappuccino and your number, please.’</p><p>“Large coffee, please. Black.”</p><p>I give him a micropause to allow for level two, but nothing. All right. “For here or take away?”</p><p>“For here, please. Have any biscuits?”</p><p>Claire told me to start getting biscuits in, not just sandwiches. Right now, I am so grateful to Claire I could hug her.</p><p>Next set of tests – vegan level of bastard, health nut, or full-on sugar demon?</p><p>“Yeah, I’ve got these vegan oatmeal pumpkin seed-”</p><p>He flinches. Good start.</p><p>“-or these decorated sugar biscuits-”</p><p>If Boo were alive, she would have suggested sugar biscuits decorated to look like little penises and vaginas. That would be hilarious. Helpful in situations when you’re trying to figure out if a fellow’s gay or straight. If he takes both, he’s bi.</p><p>“-or ginger molasses. Baked this morning.”</p><p>I don’t know who baked them, but I assume this morning. Wasn’t me.</p><p>“Ginger molasses sounds great. Ta.”</p><p>I smile again when I hand over the biscuit and his change. He does a double take and then smiles back, as if he’s forgotten that this is the moment in which to flirt. He’s out of practice. That’s all right, so am I.</p><p>“Oh. I. Um.” He stumbles for a second, trying to remember the script before coming back online. It’s adorable. Oh my God. I have to be careful. “Is this your place?”</p><p>“Yup.”</p><p>“That’s – that’s a lot of work.”</p><p>And after a slow start, he’s off and running. The café’s quiet this afternoon, about an hour before I usually close, and so we can chat without interruptions. After a bit he offers to buy me a coffee, “So you can sit down with me without getting in trouble,” and that line is combined with a crooked smile and his eyes, and I’m done.</p><p>We get around to introducing ourselves eventually. His name’s John. He’s a doctor, and when I find that out I can hear Claire’s ears pricking up all the way from Finland. I’m chatting while trying to calculate the time difference to Finland, because Claire made me promise to call her before I went on dates. She’s trying to take care of me, still, from afar. I realize with a start that I haven’t called her in a while. Oh well, neither has she called me, so it’s all right.</p><p>John’s easy to talk to, anyway. I’d kind of forgotten how this works. Before, I would maybe get the guy’s name and his number after if he was a good fuck, but generally it would be a case of, “Hi,” “Hi,” and I’d say “Yours or mine?”</p><p>Sometimes we wouldn’t even leave the café. Just pull the curtains down and have at it over the counter. I’d sterilize the whole thing the next day though. I’m not a monster, or an idiot. I wouldn’t want to fail my health inspection over something like that.</p><p>Eventually I tell him that I’ve got to close up the café, and he asks if we can exchange numbers. I like this. If he’s got my number and I don’t have his, all the power is with him to make the initiative. If I have his and he doesn’t have mine, he looks like a lazy slob that won’t make the first move to call after the prescribed number of hours/days. If we both have each other’s numbers, it’s more equal. Of course, it could end up with both of us trying to figure out when is appropriate, and then neither of us do it, and then it’s a stalemate.</p><p>God, when did dating become a game of chicken, or chess?</p><p>I find myself saying all this out loud, to my embarrassment. He laughs. In a nice way. That’s good too. He looks at his watch and tells me he’s got nowhere to be, could he take me out for a drink?</p><p>Don’t say it. Don’t invite him back to yours. Don’t think about the bottle of wine sitting in the icebox. Take it slow. Go for a date, maybe even two, before sleeping with him. Don’t say it.</p><p>“I’ve a nice bottle of wine back at mine,” I say.</p><p>He smiles, slow.</p><p>I’m such an idiot.</p><p>We go back to my flat, not far from the café, just a walk, not worth taking the bus. The conversation, for a miracle, hasn’t gone quiet now that we know the outcome of the evening. His fingertips are on the small of my back as I unlock the door.</p><p>I wonder if he’s going to start snogging the moment we step foot inside, but instead there’s the chatter of ‘nice place’, ‘make yourself comfortable’, ‘do you have a flatmate’, ‘let me get some glasses’, and so forth. He seems slightly nervous now. So am I. He takes the glass of wine with his left hand, and only now do I look at his ring finger. Bare. I really need to start looking earlier.</p><p>He sees my look, and smiles. “I’m not married,” he says. “I was, but…”</p><p>“S’okay,” I say.</p><p>We sit. We chat. He starts inching closer. I open myself up, turn toward him more, sip my wine. He laughs at my jokes, I laugh at his. Oh my God, up close his eyes are deadly, and he has <em> such </em> long eyelashes.</p><p>Three quarters of a glass later, he puts his wine down and puts his hand in my hair. “You’re so very pretty,” he says, and I’m already gagging for it when he leans in and whispers, “All right?”</p><p>Oh. My. God. It’s been a while, but he’s a really good kisser. I dated one guy who I was afraid was trying to swallow me whole, he got all pissed when I suggested he close his mouth a little. But John’s amazing. Little kisses, then <em> press </em>, and deeper and oh. My. God.</p><p>Any ideas I had about holding back, being coy, waiting, being mature, have gone right out the fucking window.</p><p>He gets a hand on my waist and just traces the edge of my waistband, back and forth, back and forth. I get my hand on his neck – Jesus, he’s got his shirt buttoned right up – I get that button undone and slide my hand onto his collarbone and his phone goes off with a text.</p><p>He freezes. “Sorry,” he says. He takes his phone out, turns the volume off, puts it face down on the coffee table.</p><p>“Do you need to take that?” <em> He’s a doctor</em>, my sex-addled brain reminds me.</p><p>“No, it’s okay. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“No, it’s fine.”</p><p>We say ‘okay’ at each other for a bit, then he starts kissing me again and I nearly go weak in the knees with relief. Weak in the knees and I’m sitting down. God, I’m pathetic.</p><p>But we don’t get very far before his phone goes off again. It’s on silent, but it buzzes. We both turn to look, and as we do, it buzzes again. It buzzes so much it’s kind of dancing around the table.</p><p>He sighs, with his forehead tipped against mine. “I don’t fucking believe this,” he mutters. “After all this time.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I’m so sorry. It’s – it’s my-”</p><p>I’m ready to hear ‘wife’. I’m ready to hear ‘girlfriend’. I’m even ready to hear ‘husband’. I’m not ready to hear, “…flatmate.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“It’s-”</p><p>“Do you mean ‘flatmate’ in the sense of ‘the person I’m romantically attached to and live with and we’re in an open relationship but I just haven’t bothered to tell her yet’?”</p><p>I’m a little pissed. Actually a lot pissed. I made a decision a long time ago – no more attached men. No helping them cheat on their wives or girlfriends. Done with that, no matter how well they kiss. I won’t be responsible for someone else’s pain; my own is enough.</p><p>The phone’s still buzzing, like the flatmate is sending a new text every five seconds.</p><p>“No, I promise you, we’re just flatmates. He-”</p><p>He?</p><p>“-he just gets – we work together, and when a case comes up he gets worked up and impatient and a bit-”</p><p>“Case?” I say. Totally confused now.</p><p>“He’s a detective,” John says, and there’s a knock at the door.</p><p>He closes his eyes and kind of shrinks a little. “You weren’t expecting someone, I imagine?” he asks.</p><p>I just shake my head.</p><p>He sighs, stands up and buttons his collar button again. Then he goes to the door.</p><p>I sit on the sofa feeling completely off-guard and dishevelled. There’s a murmured, hissing conversation at the door. At one point I hear this deep, undoubtedly male voice say, “But it’s a <em> seven</em>!”</p><p>John sighs, and says, “Go wait in the cab.”</p><p>He comes back to the lounge, embarrassment all over his face. “I’m so sorry. I have to go.”</p><p>“Okay,” I say.</p><p>“I’m really sorry.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>“He just gets – look, you have every right to be pissed at me. I’ve no right to expect it, but may I call you tomorrow? Take you out for dinner, make it up to you? Have a proper date?”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>He looks a bit weary, and I wonder how often this happens to him. The flatmate must be some handful. Still not convinced about the husband/wife thing though.</p><p>He kisses me on the cheek. “You’re really lovely,” he says, and I hear a car horn outside. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and he should really just get cards made up that say that.</p><p>He leaves, closing the door quietly after himself with a click. I’m still on the sofa, like I’m frozen in place, my hair a mess, my blouse rucked up. Out the window, I can see John walking to a cab waiting across the street. He looks pissed and sheepish all at once. There’s a tall man in a dark coat leaning against the cab; he opens the door and they get in and drive off. </p><p>I get up. I lock the door. I turn off the lights. I go upstairs to bed. Masturbate furiously.</p><p>As I’m falling asleep, I wonder how the flatmate knew where John was.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Straight, No Chaser</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Fleabag tries sexting with John, and it's an epic disaster.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Texting notes: John’s are italicized, Sherlock’s are bolded, Fleabag’s are plain text and right aligned.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next day, the text arrives. 10:01am. Not too early, not too late. On the hour, which means he’s been thinking about when to text, but not exactly on the hour so I don’t think he’s too obsessed.</p><p>     <em> Hi, John here. I want to apologize again for last night. I gave my flatmate a good arse kicking and he says it won’t happen again. Can I take you out for dinner to make it up? </em></p><p>I actually feel a little sorry for the flatmate. I suspect that John is capable of an epic arse-kicking.</p><p>Unfortunately the café is busy at 10:01am, and I don’t see the text until much later. Like three hours later. I deliberately left the phone in the cash register, so I wouldn’t check it obsessively. I have standards. I don’t get a chance to look at it until after the lunch rush.</p><p>Busy but still thinking. Phone tucked away but still obsessing. Kept thinking about what a great kisser he was, how his fingers felt against my waistband. What it would have happened if the flatmate hadn’t showed up.</p><p>I’m such an idiot but I’m ready to forgive him, as long as forgiveness comes with dinner and a few orgasms after.</p><p>My brain kind of goes offline, goes back to my old ways. I’m so fucking horny that I don’t think it through. When the café is quiet enough, I go to the loo and take a quick picture of my vagina and send it to him.</p><p>I’ve got something else you can eat.</p><p>After I press Send, regret kind of hits me a bit. That was regressive. However, that tactic never failed me before.</p><p>This time it fails on an epic level never before seen.</p><p>I get a text back, just a minute later.</p><p>     <b>John is not a gynecologist. SH</b></p><p>For one brief, blinding moment of panic, I wonder if I sent it to the wrong person. But no, there’s John’s message to me, just above.  I text back.</p><p>Who the fuck are you?</p><p>
  <b>     Sherlock Holmes, John’s flatmate. He’s in the shower. SH</b>
</p><p>Oh.</p><p>My.</p><p>Fucking.</p><p>God.</p><p>Are you and John married?</p><p> <b>No. He’s not married. Certainly not to me. SH</b></p><p>I’ve never heard of a flatmate who interrupts dates, or answers texts for someone. You’re not big on boundaries, are you?</p><p>
  <b>     Boundaries are boring. SH</b>
</p><p>My jaw is hanging on the floor. This is the most bizarre thing ever.</p><p>     <b>John tells me I was out of line to come to your flat last night. I apologize if I disturbed you, but it was a very urgent case. SH</b></p><p>What the hell is going on?</p><p>Case?</p><p>
  <b>     I was told by NSY it was a double murder, locked room. One look told me that it was a double suicide. Boring. SH</b>
</p><p>
  <b>     However, I wasn’t to know that until we got there. I rely upon John’s expertise in such matters. That’s why it was necessary for me to come fetch him. SH</b>
</p><p>Okay.</p><p>Oddly enough, I think I do understand. What’s wrong with me?</p><p>     <b>That said, I know John well enough to know that the tactic you employed here will not be effective on him. For your sake, I will delete the text and picture, and the dialogue that ensued. SH</b></p><p>Thank you I guess.</p><p> <b>John will be finishing his shower in four more minutes. Wait five minutes and then text again. I imagine he’ll ring you immediately to arrange plans for dinner. SH</b></p><p>I blink at the phone.</p><p>Thank you</p><p>     <b>It’s the least I can do. SH</b></p><p> <b>He likes you. SH</b></p><p>I’m a bit stunned by all this, and it’s actually about ten minutes before I text again.</p><p>Dinner sounds great!</p><p>Less than a minute later, my phone rings. It’s John.</p><p>“Hey! Thanks so much for texting. When would you like to meet?”</p><p>***</p><p>I once had a date take me to Pret for dinner, and he was all pleased with himself – his idea of fine dining. I would have been fine with a pub dinner with John, but he takes me to one that’s a step up from that. Another measure of atonement, I guess.</p><p>I really have forgiven him though. The conversation with the flatmate yesterday for some reason made my anger all go away. I don’t know why. I haven’t told John about that conversation, mostly because such a conversation might open the can of worms about my sending him a picture of my vag. I’m assuming this Sherlock guy didn’t say anything either.</p><p>John puts his phone face down and just out of reach on the table. I look at him.</p><p>“He won’t call,” John says. “He promised.”</p><p>I had worried that we’d be all awkward, but instead we just settle right into talking. It’s nice. There’s certainly an undercurrent of sexual tension there – like he’s not sure how far in the process he got knocked back. I have cooled a little bit, truth be told, but not in a bad way; last night I might have fucked him in the loo, but now I’m enjoying the conversation.</p><p>He tells me he was in the army, in Afghanistan, and was invalided out in 2010. He seems a bit embarrassed by this, like it was his fault he got shot and couldn’t keep going in the war.</p><p>I tell him about the café. I don’t tell him about Boo. I tell him about my sister in Finland. I don’t tell him about Martin. I want him to see the best side of me. I don’t want him to know I’m a complete fuck up.</p><p>My artifice seems to be accepted. This is good. This could be really good.</p><p>After the main course, he asks for the dessert menu and then excuses himself to go to the loo. I’m looking at the menu and trying to decide between a decadent looking cake, which would take forever to eat (unless we share. Hm.) or a crème brulee which is quick and then back to mine.</p><p>John’s back really quickly and I look up smiling, but it’s not John that’s sat across from me, it’s some posh looking git with hair to die for and a long coat.</p><p>“Oi!” I say. “Seat’s taken. Fuck off.”</p><p>“Sherlock Holmes.”</p><p>“Wrong person, mate.”</p><p>“No, <em> I’m </em> Sherlock Holmes.”</p><p>I’m mad all over again. This guy is insane – pushing his way in here. “John’s in the loo.”</p><p>“I know. I’ve been watching. I wanted to observe you up close.”</p><p>I’m so astonished I can’t breathe, can’t close my mouth.</p><p>He sits back and just looks me up and down. ‘Looks’ isn’t the right word – it’s like I’m a technical manual and he’s memorizing it before he puts the stereo system together.</p><p>“You own a café. You started it with someone but now run it on your own. One sister, lives abroad. Mother dead, father estranged – no, reconciled now. You don’t care for your stepmother but you tolerate her for your father’s sake. Former sex addict-”</p><p>“The fuck?”</p><p>“-recovering. Significant heartbreak about six months ago. He was married, unwilling to give up-”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up right now or I will knock your-”</p><p>He stops short, closes his mouth like an overflowing suitcase. He’s silent for a moment.</p><p>“Sorry,” he says. He’s looking down at the table, his eyes wandering over the tabletop.</p><p>“Why are you here?” I say.</p><p>He suddenly looks twelve years old, like he just got called out by his mum. He speaks quietly, all his confidence out the window. “I wanted to make sure – that you’re all right. That you’re good for John. He’s been hurt before and I – I owe him and – I don’t want him to get hurt.”</p><p>Part of me wants to rip him a new one. Tell him to fuck off and slug him one. Get the waiter to throw him out, or make enough fuss to get John back here and let him toss him. Remind this posh idiot that his flatmate is a grown man and can make his own decisions. But I see just a flash of something there that makes me stop.</p><p>“Do I pass, then?” I say instead.</p><p>He looks up at me, and I’m floored by the look on his face.</p><p>“Yes,” he says. “Get the toffee cake, two spoons,” and is out the door before I can blink.</p><p>I’m still staring at the door when John’s voice startles me.  “Decided on afters, then?”</p><p>I blink at him, then down at the menu.</p><p>“Yeah – want to share the toffee cake?”</p><p>“My favourite.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm not very good at HTML for AO3, and I welcome any suggestions for how to make the texts clearer.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Strange Meadow Lark</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Fleabag and John attempt another date, and it's another disaster. Fleabag learns a bit more about Sherlock and confronts him about it.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I don’t sleep with him.</p>
<p>It’s a near thing. Despite the interruption that I still don’t know what to make of, and despite the fact that it was a lovely dinner, and I really like talking to him, and all I can think of is his fingers sliding against my waistband – I don’t sleep with him.</p>
<p>I tell him this outside the restaurant. Well, some of it. I don’t tell him about Sherlock showing up like the ghost of Christmas Past.</p>
<p>“I just kind of want to – take it slow, you know?”</p>
<p>“That’s absolutely all right,” he says, and I think I believe him.</p>
<p>“I – In the past,” I say, (what are you doing? Don’t say that, he’ll think you’re a complete slag, don’t say it) “in the past I wasn’t one for taking it slow. But I’m trying to, you know, take it slow.”</p>
<p>(Excellent, now he won’t just think you’re a slag, he’ll think you’re a moron as well.)</p>
<p>I keep tightening the belt on my coat, like some kind of modern chastity belt.</p>
<p>I’m waiting for the kind of thing I’ve heard before. I have never understood the leap in logic from hearing, ‘I don’t want to sleep with you tonight’ to saying ‘You’re a great big whore.’ If I’m a whore, I would sleep with you, right?</p>
<p>He surprises me by pulling me in and giving me a great, big, god-almighty-he’s-good-at-this kiss.</p>
<p>“That is absolutely all right,” he whispers against my mouth.</p>
<p>“Jesus.” Oh no. Said it out loud.</p>
<p>“Nope. John,” he grins, and it’s all right. I don’t appear to be either a slag or a moron in his eyes.</p>
<p>“That said, may I walk you home? And that’s not me walking you home to try to talk you into this, it’s just me wanting you home safe. This neighbourhood is a bit dodgey sometimes.”</p>
<p>“Oh, not to worry, I’m friends with all the local crack junkies. We have supper parties sometimes, borrow an egg, that kind of thing.” He laughs, that’s good, laughing is good. “But I will accept the offer, thanks.”</p>
<p>And he actually tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow and we set off.</p>
<p>“Don’t get me wrong,” I say, because I feel I need to. “This isn’t punishment for the other night.”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t blame you if it was. But I understand. Again, I’m so sorry about the whole thing.”</p>
<p>“You said it was a case?”</p>
<p>He looks at me, like he’s not sure whether I really want to talk about this or whether I’m just gathering ammunition to bust his balls about last night. “Yeah, my flatmate is a detective - a consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes.”</p>
<p>I’m so lucky I didn’t say what I had been thinking about saying: ‘Tell me about Sherlock?’ Because John doesn’t know that Sherlock and I have already introduced ourselves over a picture of my vagina.</p>
<p>“And you work together?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. I met him just after I came back to England after Afghanistan. To be honest, he picked me up just when I was at a very low point. He can be infuriating but he’s brilliant, solved a lot of cases that wouldn’t otherwise have been solved. We’ve been working together, off and on, since then.”</p>
<p>Sounds like husband material to me. Step cautiously here.</p>
<p>“Off and on?”</p>
<p>He hesitates, opening his mouth a few times as if trying to kick start the words. “There was a period of time – like a couple of years – when he was out of the country. Truth be told, I thought he was dead.”</p>
<p>“Good lord. Why did you think that?”</p>
<p>“That… is an extremely long story. We’d have to walk to yours and then to Dover and back to cover it. Short version is that I didn’t take it well when he came back.”</p>
<p>“I can’t imagine.” I try to imagine. I try to think of Boo strolling back into the café, putting on her pinny, and saying, ‘I hope you remembered to feed Hilary.’ Even imagining it puts my stomach into a deep churn.</p>
<p>“It was rough for a while.  And I was angry with him for a long time, even though he was justified to do what he did. Angrier than he deserved, for more than he was responsible for. But we’ve forgiven each other, and when Mary – my wife – died, my daughter and I moved back in with him.”</p>
<p>“You have a daughter?” (Well, holy fuck, that’s an important piece of information, isn’t it?)</p>
<p>He looks at me, grins sheepishly. “I guess it didn’t come up the other day, did it?”</p>
<p>“We were a little distracted.”</p>
<p>“True. Right. Well. I have a daughter. She’s almost two and her name is Rosie.” The careful look deepens. “Is that a deal-breaker for you?”</p>
<p>I think about this a bit, surprised by my own answer. “No. So long as you’re not just looking for a babysitter. I am the world’s most disastrous babysitter.”</p>
<p>He laughs, a bit relieved, I think. “Babysitters, we have.”</p>
<p>‘We’. That’s interesting.</p>
<p>“What’s your flatmate – Sherlock?-” (That was good, nice and casual) “- like with her?”</p>
<p>“Really good. Surprisingly good. When we moved in, I never expected him to have anything to do with her, in terms of her care. But he jumped right in.” His smile broadens. “The other day I came home late from work and they were both on the sofa, asleep. Rosie was curled up on his chest. He’d fed her – the kitchen was a disaster, even more so than usual – and I guess they just fell asleep. It was lovely.”</p>
<p>His face is lost in the memory, a little wistful.</p>
<p>“Does she remember her mother?”</p>
<p>He comes back to himself. “Oh no. She was just a baby. She’ll not remember her at all.”</p>
<p>I look up to see that we’re nearly at my flat, and say so, but I think I hear him say, very softly, “For the best, really.”</p>
<p>“Pardon?”</p>
<p>“Ah, this is it, is it? I wasn’t thinking terribly clearly the other night.” He pulls me in close, and murmurs, “I absolutely respect your wanting to wait,” and then kisses me in a way that makes me nearly change my mind.</p>
<p>We look at each other for a moment, watching each other’s resolve waver, then he gives me one more peck and says good night.</p>
<p>Old me nearly chases him down the street, strips him bare and rides him frantically with the neighbours and foxes looking on. New me, the sensible adult me, goes into the flat and watches telly far too late. I don’t actually pay attention to what the show’s about, I’m thinking instead of Sherlock saying ‘I owe him – I don’t want him to get hurt’ and John saying ‘He can be infuriating but he’s brilliant’ with that soft look on his face.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>     <b>You work in a restaurant, is that correct? SH</b></p>
<p>I own a café. Who’s this?</p>
<p>     <b>Sherlock Holmes. I got your number off John’s phone. SH</b></p>
<p> <b>I need your professional opinion. SH</b></p>
<p>I stare down at my phone in complete confusion. The fuck?</p>
<p>     <b>Is this a chef’s knife or a butcher knife? SH</b></p>
<p>And then a picture comes in of a long knife, covered in blood. I lose a bit of blood out of my face. Holy fuck, he’s insane.</p>
<p>     <b>My understanding is that the difference is in the width of the blade, but the idiots at Scotland Yard won’t let me pick it up to measure. SH</b></p>
<p>Oh. My. God.</p>
<p>I own a café. I make sandwiches. All I know about knives is which end to pick it up with.</p>
<p>    <b>All right, thank you, even though you were no help at all.  SH</b></p>
<p>
  <b>    John’s questioning a witness right now, but I’m sure he would want me to say hello from him. SH</b>
</p>
<p>I think if John knew Sherlock was sending me pictures of murder weapons by text, he’d murder Sherlock himself. I send one more text.</p>
<p>Hi back</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Another text, a few hours later, from John.</p>
<p>     <em> Sorry about Sherlock earlier. He should know better </em></p>
<p>
  <em>      I'</em>
  <em>m used to that kind of thing but he never understands that most people aren’t </em>
</p>
<p>I get the feeling that John spends a lot of his time apologizing on Sherlock’s behalf.</p>
<p>It’s okay. Blood doesn’t bother me.</p>
<p>     <em> Still. Must have given you a bit of a wobbly. </em></p>
<p>Why do men assume that women can’t handle blood? You are a doctor, aren’t you?</p>
<p>I send it before I think too hard, which I begin to wonder was a mistake as minutes tick by. I text again (grow up, you idiot!).</p>
<p>Sorry</p>
<p>     <em> No, don’t be, I’m laughing my arse off over here. </em></p>
<p> <em> Want to go to a movie Friday night? </em></p>
<p>Sounds great.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Except the movie is a complete disaster. Even more so than the first date.</p>
<p>John asks me to pick the film, and I pick some random film from the papers, some so-called comedy that must have been written by a twelve year old arsehole kid. At first it’s okay – not the film, but I start making fun of it, and John follows along, and we’re nearly alone in the theatre, giggling, and I think that maybe we’ll give up the premise of watching and just snog in the theatre like teenagers.</p>
<p>I’m even considering whether the cinema is empty enough for me to risk giving him a handjob, when one of the idiotic characters in the film ends up hanging off the side of a building, and John goes <em> still</em>.</p>
<p>My hand was halfway to his flies but I stop, something’s deeply wrong. He’s pale and just on the verge of shaking, and I have a funny feeling that if I touch his belt buckle things will go very badly.</p>
<p>“Sorry,” he whispers, and leaves the theatre.</p>
<p>By the time I gather up our coats and my purse, he’s outside sitting on a bench. He’s not shaking any more but breathing very deliberately, looking down at the pavement. He looks up at me when I approach, tentatively, and he smiles faintly.</p>
<p>“Sorry,” he says again. “Um… bad memories. They catch up with me every once in a while.”</p>
<p>“The war?” I say. He’s told me he was in Afghanistan, though he doesn’t seem to want to talk about it a lot.</p>
<p>“No,” he says shortly, and that’s the end of it. (The fuck does that mean?) He stands and puts his jacket on. “Mind if we go for a walk?”</p>
<p>We walk for about ten minutes before I say, “That was a really stupid film.”</p>
<p>He laughs, and sounds a bit closer to normal. “It really was.”</p>
<p>When I get home, I open my laptop and search for “John Watson”, and then “Sherlock Holmes”.</p>
<p>The first thing I see is a headline – <strong>‘</strong><b>Fake suicide of falsely accused genius’</b>.</p>
<p>Holy shit.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Meet me at my café, I have some questions for you.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>     Who’s this? SH</b>
</p>
<p>You know exactly who this is. Or do you want another picture of my vagina?</p>
<p>     <b>God no. What do you want to talk about? SH</b></p>
<p>John.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I don’t send him the address or closing time, but he shows up one minute before six. He’s wearing that coat even though it’s warm out, wrapped nearly twice around him, skinny bastard.</p>
<p>“He had a flashback, didn’t he,” Sherlock says without preamble. “At the cinema.”</p>
<p>“He did.”</p>
<p>“He hasn’t had one in a long time,” he says. “What triggered it?” </p>
<p>“Stupid film. People hanging off the edges of buildings.”</p>
<p>“Ah.”</p>
<p>I feel incandescently angry, even though this happened ages ago, happened to John and not me. I can see Boo in the corner of the café, shaking her head. I ignore her. “Why did you do it?”</p>
<p>He straightens his back even more, as if that were possible. “John knows my reasons.”</p>
<p>“But he’s still fucked up about it, isn’t he?” I snap.</p>
<p>“Aren’t you as well?” he says pointedly.</p>
<p>“Aren’t I what?”</p>
<p>“Still fucked up.”</p>
<p>His voice is clear and crisp but not angry, even though the words are. I realize like a gut punch that he knows exactly what I’m talking about. I look up and I see Boo, and she’s nodding with a sad smile on her face. I sit down, and Sherlock and I just sit together in silence for a long time.</p>
<p>“How did you know?” I say after a while.</p>
<p>He shrugs. “I read the papers.” Another long pause. “Your friend was an idiot.”</p>
<p>“No argument from me.”</p>
<p>His mouth quirks up.</p>
<p>“I’m an idiot too,” I add.</p>
<p>Sherlock sighs. “A café full of idiots,” he says.</p>
<p>“I can rename the place, maybe. ‘A Café of Idiots’.”</p>
<p>“Might bring down the clientele.”</p>
<p>“We can all sit around and compare how idiotic we are. Have weekly contests.”</p>
<p>Lo and behold, he laughs. Just a little. Then he sighs. “I did it because someone was threatening John. A very dangerous man. They were going to kill him, if I didn’t jump. I had to stop it. I’d have done anything to stop it. And I had to stay away, once it was done, to make sure I’d eradicated that man’s influence. But I had no idea how long it would take me, and how it would affect John. When I did come back, and I saw what I had done, I swore to make it up to him.”</p>
<p>“You threw yourself off a building in front of him, and didn’t think he’d be affected?”</p>
<p>He shrugs. “Miscalculation. Human error.”</p>
<p>I go cold at that, at the thought that he honestly believed no one would mourn him. Even the way he says it, it’s like a robot. How fucked up is this guy? A café of idiots indeed.</p>
<p>“So now you screen his dates for him, to make sure he’s happy?” I say.</p>
<p>“I had made another error, when I returned, and it created even more trouble for him. I want to ensure that doesn’t happen again.”</p>
<p><em> The wife</em>, I think. <em> The dead wife</em>. This is so fucked up.</p>
<p>I look at Sherlock, who’s fiddling with the condensation on a table. Making circles in the water. I see a glimmer of something there; something familiar. Sad. Regretful. And – something else.</p>
<p>If I’m right about this, this is really fucking tragic. </p>
<p>“What’s your attitude towards guinea pigs?” I blurt out.</p>
<p>His head shoots up to stare at me. I wonder for a moment if he’s checking for alternate exits, but he just looks confused. “I have no attitude towards them one way or another.”</p>
<p>I get Hilary out of her pen, carry her over to Sherlock. “This is Hilary. She was my friend’s. Some people like holding her.”</p>
<p>I lay the guinea pig in his arms, and he freezes for a moment, as if he’s not quite sure whether she’s going to blow up. Then he lifts one hand and starts patting her. God, his hands are enormous, his whole hand is as long as the poor pig. He pats her for a long time, and then he smiles down at her.</p>
<p>We sit there together, Sherlock and Hilary and I, as the sun starts to set.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For those who haven't seen Fleabag, Hillary is her guinea pig which used to belong to her late best friend.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Coffee Cold</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>I cannot possibly give him what he needs. I’ve always known that. SH</p>
<p>Don’t be too sure about that, mate. I’ve seen him.</p>
<p>I’m sure. I’m broken. That’s not what he needs. SH</p>
<p>You’re NOT broken. He needs you. Just tell him.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John has a blog. Or rather had – he hasn’t updated it in a couple of years. It seems to stop right after his wedding. I can’t figure out anything after that in terms of John’s wife’s death, when or how or why.</p>
<p>But reading the blog, at least as far as it goes, upholds my theory. Like I thought back in the beginning, what kind of guy says those kinds of things about his flatmate?</p>
<p>I should call Claire. She’d probably have something to say about all this. Likely along the lines of ‘Run, you stupid idiot.’ But she married Martin, so is she really one to judge?</p>
<p>I decide to test the theory for myself.</p>
<p>John takes me out for dinner again. This is date number three – well, two and a half, I suppose. Third date is usually the ‘fuck or fuck off’ date. Though in my past, that was the standard for a first date for me. If a date didn’t end in an orgasm, I considered it a great failure.</p>
<p>He asks me how I’ve been, how the café is going. Apologizes again about the movie. Tells me a bit about his daughter. Then he mentions that he and Sherlock had had a case earlier that week. So I ask him about it, and he talks about it for a solid fifteen minutes.</p>
<p>Not just the case. Not really about the case at all. He talks about how Sherlock solved the case.</p>
<p>Now, if John was a real prick, he would have inflated his own role in the case. As it is, I suspect he’s underplaying it. An arsehole would have talked about himself the whole time. I had a date once, a blind date, who talked about himself nonstop for the entire date while I drank myself stupid and said ‘Uh huh’ occasionally. I considered recording myself and just leaving the tape running and doing a runner.</p>
<p>John’s not a complete prick. Not a prick at all, I think. Just can’t see what’s in front of him.</p>
<p>It hits me with a swift left hook from my intuition.</p>
<p>John Watson is in love with Sherlock Holmes.</p>
<p>And the real tragedy is that Sherlock’s in love with John, and either he doesn’t see it either, or won’t acknowledge it, or say so.</p>
<p>It’s enough to make you want to bang your head against the wall.</p>
<p>But I’ve done enough head-banging-against-the-wall for one lifetime, thanks very much. Over dessert, I decide that the best course of action is to get out of the way and let these two idiots figure it out, somehow. It means I won’t get laid, but it seems like a worthy sacrifice.</p>
<p>I excuse myself to the loo, then come back and tell John I’ve had a call from my sister, who needs me to Skype her immediately, need to get home, so sorry to cut it short, yes let’s get together next week, that would be lovely.</p>
<p>He gives me a truly extraordinary kiss as he puts me in a cab, which gives me a glimmer of doubt. God, he would be such a good shag. Alternate world me is currently legs open and cross eyed, but real world me says goodbye and lets the cab drive away.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>     <em> Hope everything’s okay with your sister </em></p>
<p>
  <em> ... </em>
</p>
<p> <em> It’s supposed to be really nice Sunday, I was wondering if you’d like to go for a walk? Regent’s Park maybe? </em></p>
<p>
  <em> ... </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>      You all right? Just checking in </em>
</p>
<p>...</p>
<p>[Missed call – John W]</p>
<p>
  <em> ... </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>      I’m starting to worry now – let me know you’re all right please? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> ... </em>
</p>
<p>[Missed call – John W]</p>
<p>...</p>
<p>     <em> If you don’t want to see me again, I will understand, I promise. I just need to know you’re okay. </em></p>
<p>
  <em> ... </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>      I’m sorry </em>
</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>     <b>Why aren’t you answering John’s texts? SH</b></p>
<p>Fucking boundaries, Sherlock. Not your business.</p>
<p>     <b>It is my business. He’s mooning around the flat, checking his phone every two minutes. He thinks it’s broken. He thinks you’ve fallen ill or moved to Finland. SH</b></p>
<p> <b>He likes you, don’t you like him? SH</b></p>
<p>It’s just not going to work.</p>
<p>     <b>Why not? SH</b></p>
<p>Fuck. He’s really going to make me do this, over text?</p>
<p>You know perfectly well why.</p>
<p>     <b>No I don’t. SH</b></p>
<p>     <b>That’s painful for me to admit, so tell me. SH</b></p>
<p>Fuck. He actually is an idiot. Maybe he needs a bit of a push.</p>
<p>Because I’m not what he really wants.</p>
<p>Then nothing for a while. I would have thought that he’s just given up on the conversation, but I can see the three dots rotating, rolling by over and over again, while he types and erases and types again. I can imagine his brain doing the same thing.</p>
<p>     <b>You’re wrong. SH</b></p>
<p>Be honest with yourself, Sherlock.</p>
<p>You know this. Just tell him.</p>
<p>Three dots. Nothing. Three dots.</p>
<p>
  <b>     How</b>
</p>
<p>I’ve rattled him. He pressed send before he could finish his sentence or write his initials. Bull’s eye.</p>
<p>This is killing me, maybe it’s killing him. But if this is what it takes for these two stubborn gits to take the step then so be it.</p>
<p>Because ‘significant heartbreak’, remember? Takes one to know one.</p>
<p>Another long pause. No dots. Then - </p>
<p>     <b>I cannot possibly give him what he needs. I’ve always known that. SH</b></p>
<p>Don’t be too sure about that, mate. I’ve seen him.</p>
<p>
  <b>     I’m sure. I’m broken. That’s not what he needs. SH</b>
</p>
<p>You’re NOT broken. He needs you. Just tell him.</p>
<p>     <b>[Text not received.]</b></p>
<p>I stare at my phone. What the fuck. What just happened, how did he do that?</p>
<p>What does he mean, ‘I’m broken’?</p>
<p>That’s it. If I do one thing in my life that’s good, it’s this. I’m going to get these two to see sense.</p>
<p>I’m going over there.</p>
<p>Now I just need to figure out where they live.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Conference of the Birds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Fleabag arrives at Baker Street with her mission but is thrown off by another person visiting John and Sherlock.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It takes strength to know what's right. And love isn't something that weak people do. Being a romantic takes a hell of a lot of hope. I think what they mean is when you find somebody that you love, it feels like hope.<br/>- The Priest, Fleabag, S2E6</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The address actually wasn’t hard to find. Given their work, you’d think they’d be more careful, but there it is on the internet – 221B Baker Street. Right by Regent’s Park, which is likely why John suggested a walk there.</p>
<p>I’m preparing speeches all the way there, rehearsing them in my head, trying to figure out the best way to get this idea that they actually love each other into their heads. It’s likely going to be a challenge, they’ve been dancing around this for years. Jericho’s walls had nothing on these guys. And I’m the trumpet to blow them all down. Yay me.</p>
<p>I’m half expecting to see a line of desperate cases queued up down the street, but there’s no one there except for some people getting coffee from the café next door.</p>
<p>I try to throw my courage from the knot in my stomach up into my head, and on the way past my hands it makes me knock at the door. Of course I was expecting to see John or Sherlock, so I’m a bit taken aback when the door’s opened by an older lady, who peers out at me with great curiosity. Did I get the wrong address after all?</p>
<p>“Um – Sherlock Holmes or John Watson?” I say, sounding like the great intellect I am.</p>
<p>“Oh yes dear, come in,” she says, and I immediately want to ask her for tea and some biscuits please. “They’re upstairs, but I think they’ve got someone with them right now. Are you a client?”</p>
<p>“Not really, I’ve been kind of seeing John and I’m kind of friends with Sherlock and,” I say, and my self censor decides to take a vacation, “I want to go chat with them and make them see that they’re actually in love with each other.” Then I smile brightly.</p>
<p>I’m ready for this sweet lady to forcibly take away my imaginary tea and biscuits and give me a homophobic talking-to, possibly chase me out with her bookmarked, dog-eared bible - but instead she gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek.</p>
<p>“Good for you,” she says. “Make those foolish boys see sense. Up you go.”</p>
<p>I head towards the stairs, and glance back; Baker Street Granny is giving me an enthusiastic thumbs up. My courage a tad bolstered, I straighten my spine and head up.</p>
<p>I can hear their voices – John’s, low; Sherlock’s a lot louder but not angry. That boy must have swallowed a bullhorn when he was a kid, his voice resonates like anything. There’s a third voice that I can’t quite hear until I’m just a few steps from the top.</p>
<p>I know that voice. Haven’t heard it in months but I’d know it anywhere.</p>
<p>All the blood leaves my body at once, and I stagger up the last few stairs. The door’s open and I blunder straight in. Three faces turn to me with varying degrees of astonishment, but I’m only looking at one. </p>
<p>He’s sitting in a chair by a fireplace, his priest’s collar on but his hair’s rumpled like he’s been gripping at it. His face slides from surprise into embarrassment, with a shade of a smile, like he’s actually glad to see me, then finally into sadness.</p>
<p>“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says softly, and it’s killing me to hear his voice again.</p>
<p>“I – I’m here – I’m here to-” I say, suddenly absolutely unsure why I’m here at all.</p>
<p>“She’s here to see John,” Sherlock says.</p>
<p>“Oh.”</p>
<p>And there’s a world in that ‘<em>Oh</em>’, relief and disappointment and regret, and it makes me feel awful and better all at once.</p>
<p>He stands, and turns to John and Sherlock, and visibly pulls himself together. “Gentlemen, I think I should go. I hope you believe me when I say I haven’t heard from my brother in many years, and from what you say, I think I never will again.”</p>
<p>John and Sherlock look at each other for a moment, and there’s a barely perceptible nod between them. “All right,” John says. “You’ll be in touch if you do? Hear from him, or of him?”</p>
<p>“Of course.”</p>
<p>He gets up, and I worry for a moment that he’s just going to brush past me and disappear into London again, but he stops in the doorway. He glances back at John and Sherlock, then pulls me into the foyer. His hand, on my elbow.</p>
<p>“You’re all right?” he says, and it’s so earnest I want to cry.</p>
<p>“Yeah – yeah,” I say, intelligently.</p>
<p>He tilts his head back towards the sitting room, where John and Sherlock are standing awkwardly. “They’re – ahm – looking for my brother. My twin,” he says.</p>
<p>“The pedophile?” I say. Because I remember everything he’s ever said in my presence.</p>
<p>His mouth does that little twist thing that is half smile, half cringe. “Yes, that brother but… he’s not a pedophile. He’s… worse.”</p>
<p>“Worse than a pedophile?”</p>
<p>“Yes, but… I’d like to leave it at that, if I could.”</p>
<p>“Okay.” I wonder if I can get the full story from John or Sherlock later, then I remember why I’m there.</p>
<p>He tilts his head back toward the sitting room. “So you’re here to see…?”</p>
<p>“Yes. And no. I’ve come to… try to show them something.”</p>
<p>His eyes light up with understanding, and how does he do that? How does he understand me without my having to say anything coherent? He pulls me just a step further away from John and Sherlock, lowers his voice. “You see it too?”</p>
<p>I just nod, dumbly.</p>
<p>He takes my hands in his, and my heart goes jumping all over the place while a quiet calm settles over me. “You can do some good here today,” he says. He shakes my hands a little, then squeezes them and lets go. “Do good things,” he says, and turns and walks away, down the stairs, disappears into London.</p>
<p>I walk back into the sitting room, feeling a little like I’ve been hit between the eyes with a large plank. John reaches out to me and guides me onto the sofa.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter, love?” he says.</p>
<p>“Oh,” Sherlock says, almost to himself.</p>
<p>“What did he say to you?” John says. He gets a murderous look in his eyes, and I worry he’s going to jump up and go after him.</p>
<p>“Significant heartbreak,” Sherlock says, as if it’s a revelation. “Not married, but....oh.”</p>
<p>“What?” John snaps. He glares at Sherlock, then looks confused; Sherlock is staring at me with his jaw hanging slightly open. John looks back at me. “Do you know him? Did he-”</p>
<p>“Shut up, John,” Sherlock says.</p>
<p>For a mercy, John does shut up. I breathe carefully, with the noise of Baker Street outside and the creaking of their flat around me, John’s hand on my shoulder. I am dimly aware that Sherlock has sat down on my other side, not touching but close, and I suddenly feel better. I nod.</p>
<p>“Tea?” John says. The English solution to everything, even significant heartbreak.</p>
<p>“No – thanks – I want to talk to you,” I say.</p>
<p>John looks tired suddenly, and I can nearly read his thoughts; he thinks I’ve come to break it off. Well, I have but it’s more complicated, isn’t it?</p>
<p>Sherlock leaps up. “That’s a good idea, have some time together,” he says, all in a rush, manic energy. “Go and have dinner. John, why don’t you take her to that new Mongolian place on Marylebone?”</p>
<p>“No, I want to talk to both of you,” I say.</p>
<p>Pure terror crosses Sherlock’s face. “Nonsense, you don’t need me around.” He actually pulls out his wallet, hands John a fifty pound note. “Off you go, my treat.”</p>
<p>John’s just sitting there, the note in his hand, absolutely confused. “Sherlock, I-”</p>
<p>“Or I’ll go out,” Sherlock says, already reaching for his coat. “Leave the flat to you two. I’ll be at the lab, won’t be back for hours.”</p>
<p>I hear his voice break a little on ‘hours’, and I snap, “For God’s sake, Sherlock, just sit down! Stop avoiding this for fuck’s sake!”</p>
<p>There’s a long moment of silence, both of them frozen, John on the sofa with the note still between his fingers, Sherlock with his coat half on, his face pale.</p>
<p>“Avoiding what?” John says quietly.</p>
<p>Irritation washing with adrenaline (of seeing <em> him </em>again, his hand on my elbow, his hands holding mine) clears away all my nervousness. I sit up, try to look them both in the eye. “The fact that you two are in love with each other.”</p>
<p>Bam.</p>
<p>The dust clears from the metaphorical piano I’ve thrown in the middle of the room, and Sherlock is blinking rapidly. John shakes his head a little, his expression a little sad.</p>
<p>“Ah, right. Well, you’re not the first to make that assumption. But we’re not a couple,” John says gently.</p>
<p>I look right at Sherlock, not John. “But you want to be.”</p>
<p>“Look, it’s a fair assumption, we’re friends, very close friends. But-”</p>
<p>I’m still looking at Sherlock, who’s still blinking, and tilt my head to John. “He loves you. He really does. If you would both just bend your stiff necks and maybe actually <em> talk </em> to each other-”</p>
<p>“He doesn’t,” Sherlock says. “Not like that.”</p>
<p>“What?” John says. Now <em> he </em> looks gobsmacked.</p>
<p>“He’s said it, time and time again. Not gay, not my date. So thank you for your concern, but-”</p>
<p>“I thought-” John says.</p>
<p>“-I’ll just go and we’ll forget that this ever-”</p>
<p>“-you never said, Sherlock, I don’t underst-”</p>
<p>“And he loves you too,” I say to John. He looks like he’s been hit by a lorry. “He’s afraid of losing you, so he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t-”</p>
<p>“Would you shut up!” Sherlock growls. He starts to stride towards the door; he’s got long legs but fortunately John is faster and grabs his arm before he gets out.</p>
<p>“What is she saying?” John says. His hand is all twisted in the sleeve of Sherlock’s coat. “Is it true? Sherlock?”</p>
<p>“Of course not, she’s – she’s projecting, it’s not-”</p>
<p>John’s face twists, a mirror of his hand. “Sherlock, just this once, <em> please </em> do not lie to me.”</p>
<p>They stare each other in the eyes, and I’m nearly crossing my fingers and toes – they’re so close.</p>
<p>Sherlock straightens his spine, looks down at John. His voice comes out calm. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”</p>
<p>“What doesn’t matter?” John shouts. “It doesn’t matter if you love me? Why the fuck-”</p>
<p>“I cannot possibly be what you want.”</p>
<p>“Because you’re a man?”</p>
<p>“Because I’m asexual!”</p>
<p>The words fall into the sudden silence of the room like anvils.</p>
<p>“You’re a doctor, you understand the term, of course,” Sherlock says, fast and snobby and completely defensive. “Sex and Sherlock Holmes do not get along. I tried, when I was younger, believe me, I tried, but it was awful and I’ve never felt worse in my life. I can’t, John. And you need sex, I see you with all these dates, and I know you need it and I can’t give that to you. I cannot possibly offer you what you need.”</p>
<p>John licks his lips; he’s not taken his eyes off Sherlock, or loosened his grip on Sherlock’s coat. “But do you love me?” he says, quiet but clear and steady.</p>
<p>Sherlock freezes and goes pale, I didn’t think was possible for him to be even more pale. He swallows and swallows. His mouth opens but nothing comes out.</p>
<p>John’s hand releases Sherlock’s sleeve, strokes it smooth. He straightens and squares up his body, as though preparing for war. “Because she’s right – I do love you. I thought you didn’t, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Didn’t ask you.</p>
<p>“And if you love me, it doesn’t matter to me if you’re a man, or asexual. All I wanted – it’s enough for me, if you love me. It is. So. Do you love me?”</p>
<p>Sherlock looks like he’s going to fall down, and nobody moves for ages. Then his head jerks into a nod, then smooths out; he keeps nodding as John smiles.</p>
<p>“Can I hold you?” John says. “Is that all right?”</p>
<p>Sherlock keeps nodding like he’s in a dream, and John puts his arms around him, his hand on his neck. Sherlock accepts the hug as gracefully as a mannequin at first, then relaxes all at once and puts his head down onto John’s shoulder.</p>
<p>It’s time for me to go.</p>
<p>I wipe my face, and as quietly as I can, slip past them and out the door. Just as I’m going down the stairs, I look back at them, holding each other tight, swaying slightly.</p>
<p>Sherlock has his face hidden in John’s neck. His arm is extended, his hand reaching out to me. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>One more chapter to go! I can't leave Fleabag without her own happy ending.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Besame Mucho</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Fleabag gets her happy ending.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A week later, and life is mundane again.</p>
<p>I keep trying to tell myself that mundane is fine. That there’s no guilt, no confusion, no mixed feelings with mundane. Boring, yeah, but easier.</p>
<p>Fuck, I hope those two figured it out. They’ll probably have to talk for about five years straight (haha) to get everything out. They give emotionally-repressed-with-a-hyphen a bad name. At least I got them started, even if it means that my life is mundane now.</p>
<p>It’s a faint but bitter joy.</p>
<p>Café’s going well, at least. Keeps me busy. Joe shows up first on Chatty Tuesday, last to leave. Talks constantly. He could have taught John and Sherlock a lesson.</p>
<p>I keep meaning to call Claire. She’d probably say something acerbic that would put all of this into perspective for me. The only time I remember is as I’m falling asleep, which is of course too late to call. Maybe I should put an alarm on my phone. She’ll be pissed as hell at everything I’ve been up to and not telling her. Well, maybe she should call me sometimes, has she ever considered that?</p>
<p>Amazing. Haven’t talked to my sister in ages, she’s across a sea, and I’m still arguing with her in my head.</p>
<p>I’ve just cleared Joe out (God, I bet he’d sleep here if I let him) and started my clean up when there’s a tap at the door.</p>
<p>It’s John and Sherlock.</p>
<p>I blink at the door for a second before I remember that I locked it, then come over and open it.</p>
<p>Fuck, they’re holding hands. They’re <em> holding hands</em>, and they could light up the sky, they’re glowing so much. Sherlock’s got his shoulders thrown back, proud, and he’s nearly vibrating. John lets go of Sherlock’s hand only long enough to put his hand on the small of his back as Sherlock steps up into the café. </p>
<p>I can’t help grinning as John gives me a big hug, and I even get a peck on the cheek from Sherlock.</p>
<p>“Well, look at you two,” I say. “You look like you just won each other at a fair.”</p>
<p>“We wanted to stop by and see how you’re doing,” John says. “Is now okay?”</p>
<p>“Now is very okay,” I say. We sit at a table. They sit next to each other as though the distance of a table between them is just too much to handle. I sit across from them and I need fucking sunglasses for the light coming off them. I can’t help grinning at them.</p>
<p>For a second, I consider that if I’d played this differently, I could have fucked John and this wouldn’t have happened. Eventually I would have gotten jealous about Sherlock and dumped John, and they would have just kept going, neither admitting the truth to each other. This could have played out very differently.</p>
<p>I didn’t get laid, but on the whole this is better.</p>
<p>“We wanted to thank you,” John says. Sherlock nods, once, sharply but not curtly. “For getting our heads out of our arses, really. We’d been dancing around this for years, but no one really pushed the issue like you did. We’re very, very grateful.”</p>
<p>“I’m glad,” I say, and am immediately embarrassed by the lump in my throat, my suddenly blurry vision. “I really am.”</p>
<p>“We’ve been doing research,” Sherlock says, and for a moment I think ‘Oh, is that what the kids are calling it these days?’ and then I remember, ‘Oh yeah, ace’.</p>
<p>“I will admit to an error in my past with regard to my own sexual identification. I knew from my teenage years I was asexual, but thought that this also meant that I was broken, that I was unable to…love. Through research, initiated by the discussions with you and with John, I have realized that in my youth I had a very limited definition of asexuality, and that there are in fact many variations within that.”</p>
<p>He straightens his back, and looks rather smug for a guy that’s only just figured something out about himself. “I am an asexual homoromantic with grey overtones. I have learned that I am capable of love-”</p>
<p>“More than capable,” John grins.</p>
<p>Sherlock stutters just a bit, then gets back on track, “with situational and individually specific appreciation for non-sexual physical contact.”</p>
<p>“He means he likes kissing and cuddling,” John supplies. </p>
<p>Sherlock turns a colour red that I didn’t think was possible with his skin tone. “Yes, thank you John.” He’s clearly trying to ignore the fact that if his face was on top of an ambulance it could stop traffic, and he turns to John, eyebrows raised, expectantly.</p>
<p>“Uh, yes. And I’ve come to realize that I’m bisexual. I’ve wasted an awful lot of my life denying that,” John says, a little more sober.</p>
<p>“Ah, cheers, I’m a bit bi myself,” I say, reaching over to shake his hand. “Welcome to the club. We have chocolate <em> and </em> crisps.”</p>
<p>John puts his head down and snorts, then lets out a string of giggles that gets me going too. Sherlock tries to look all superior and aloof, but I see his smile twisting despite himself.</p>
<p>“When you two are quite finished,” Sherlock says, “we’d like to take you to dinner, if we could.”</p>
<p>“Lovely, I’m starving,” I say. They glance at each other and smile – wonder if that’s an in-joke for them?</p>
<p>I stand up and take my pinny off. I look over the café and figure any cleaning can wait until tomorrow. I shut off the lights, and Sherlock holds open the door for me and John.</p>
<p>“You like Italian?” John says. “We have a friend who’s got a nice place, adores Sherlock.”</p>
<p>“Sounds great.”</p>
<p>“And over dinner,” Sherlock adds, pulling on his gloves, “we have a proposal we’d like to discuss.”</p>
<p>“A what?”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>
  <em> Six months later </em>
</p>
<p>“It’s so important that art creates a window into the soul,” the guy says.</p>
<p>What’s his name again? Matthew? Mark? Oh fuck, it’s Luke, isn’t it.</p>
<p>“That’s what I try to do with my films. Unfortunately the mainstream media just doesn’t understand this and resists the truth that I’m portraying.”</p>
<p>Oh dear God.</p>
<p>“The English are such prudes, such Puritans when it comes to truth. They want their entertainment spoon fed to them, like porridge.”</p>
<p>My phone vibrates. I surreptitiously look down. He doesn’t notice.</p>
<p> <em>What a wanker.</em></p>
<p>I smile behind my hand; give a very tiny nod. “Really,” I say.</p>
<p>“I left film school because of their prudish attitude. There was no point in staying, just to be molded into their version of a filmmaker, their cookie cutter mentality. I’ve been working independently ever since.” He leans forward, conspiratorially. “I’m just in the final stages of setting up a meeting with Lars Von Trier.”</p>
<p>My phone vibrates again.</p>
<p> <b>Wrong! SH</b></p>
<p>I narrowly prevent myself from snorting. Another buzz.</p>
<p>     <b>Von Trier won’t be coming to England for the foreseeable future, if he doesn’t want to be arrested for tax evasion, plus a few other issues that I am not at liberty to disclose. SH</b></p>
<p>“I mean, I’ll consider it. His early films were an inspiration to me, although his more recent work has become more pedestrian.”</p>
<p> <em>Has he asked you a single question about yourself? Even once?</em></p>
<p>I turn up the volume on my phone. Within seconds there’s a beep.</p>
<p> <em>Want out? Just say the word.</em></p>
<p>I glance across the restaurant. John and Sherlock are seated in a corner: John’s casually looking in our direction, as though looking for the waiter; Sherlock is simultaneously eating from John’s plate, texting, and holding John’s hand. Honestly I don’t know how he does that.</p>
<p>John’s looking at me with one eyebrow raised. A questioning look on his face.</p>
<p>I seem to have finally gotten this idiot’s attention. He’s realized that I’m not focused on him anymore, but on my phone and on John and Sherlock.</p>
<p>“Something wrong?” he says.</p>
<p>“I just got a text from my – sister,” I say.</p>
<p>“Oh yeah?” he says, sarcasm lining his voice. Clearly he’s heard this line before – probably on every date he’s ever had. “What’d she say?” He actually cranes his head as if to read my phone.</p>
<p>“She says,” I look over, and Sherlock’s putting on his coat, “she says you’re a pretentious wanker who couldn’t get a meeting with Lars Von Trier if you were both in the gent’s and he needed loo paper.”</p>
<p>The two women having dinner at the table next to us bust out laughing. </p>
<p>Luke-the-Pretentious-Wanker turns red.</p>
<p>“Stupid bitch,” he snarls.</p>
<p>John stands up, and I see the dangerous look in his eyes. The same look is reflected in the eyes of everyone else in the restaurant.</p>
<p>“S’all right, I got this,” I say out loud. John backs down minutely but remains standing.</p>
<p>“My goodness, you’re looking very flushed – Luke, was it? You need cooling down.” I pick up my wine glass. “Good thing I had the white.”</p>
<p>I throw it in his face, and several things happen at once. He jumps up toward me, but the waiter, who was just behind him, grabs him by the collar and waistband and pushes him out the door. At the same time the whole restaurant breaks into applause.</p>
<p>I bow, grab my coat, and head over to John and Sherlock’s table. John puts on his coat, chuckling, while Sherlock throws some notes on the table. I notice that it’s enough for their meal, and mine, but not Wanker’s. I point at the notes.</p>
<p>“Thanks, but the restaurant shouldn’t get stiffed for his dinner.”</p>
<p>“It’s all right,” Sherlock says. He has that little secret smile that I adore. “He ‘dropped’ his wallet in the loo earlier. It’s covered.”</p>
<p>“<em>Wanker</em>,” John says again. “That was fun for us, but not for you, I think,” he says, looking a little worried.</p>
<p>“Naw, that was hilarious,” I say.</p>
<p>When we developed our arrangement, they insisted that I continue to date, with their willingness to back me up in case of bad dates. I think they’re worried that I’m going to get tired of them and want to move on. Truthfully, I’m rather happy with the whole situation at the moment. I only go out on the dates now because <em> they </em> seem to enjoy it so much. Also their reactions are fantastic. Lately I’ve been deliberately picking dates with the greatest wank/hilarity ratio potential. I suspect that Sherlock knows this but is staying mum.</p>
<p>Sherlock nods to the waiter, then turns back to me. “Back to ours then?” he says.</p>
<p>“Sounds great.”</p>
<p>John slings his arm around my shoulder, Sherlock takes his hand, and we’re off.</p>
<p>Mrs. Hudson is watching telly in the sitting room when we get back. “Oh my,” she says when she sees me. “Another arsehole, dear?”</p>
<p>“Unfortunately, yeah.”</p>
<p>“Ah bless. Better luck next time,” she says. She pecks me on the cheek and turns to John. “Rosie was good as gold, fell asleep about an hour ago,” she tells John. “We went for a long walk in the park, so she was tuckered out.”</p>
<p>“You’re brilliant, Mrs. H,” John says.</p>
<p>“I’ve made some nice scones – shall I bring them up in the morning for you?” Mrs. Hudson says. Sherlock opens his mouth, but she jumps in. “Yes, I made some for you without raisins, Sherlock. Honestly, a grown man who won’t eat raisins.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, Mrs. Hudson,” I say. “See you then.”</p>
<p>Mrs. Hudson heads downstairs and John locks up. Sherlock has already settled at the kitchen table with some terrifying-looking experiment. “All right love?” John says.</p>
<p>There’s always this small moment of contact, a check-in. I love it.</p>
<p>When we started this arrangement, this was the part I was most worried about. Sherlock had spent years denying his own feelings in regard to John, self-sacrificing to the point of martyrdom, and I was concerned that he was doing it again – still. But this time about sex.</p>
<p>I had figured out by then that when Sherlock is embarrassed or flustered, he gets all haughty and snooty, making a cutting comment and then walking away. This time, however, he took my hands in his and explained that he and John had talked at length about this, with John expressing the same concerns, and he, Sherlock, wanted to assure us both that he was all right with it. “Because I trust you,” he said. “I know you won’t hurt him, and you understand his role in my life, and mine in his. You won’t try to get between us. You believed in us before we understood it ourselves. And we want you to be a part of us. The... affection flows in all directions. None of the three of us is the third wheel. Equal. All right?”</p>
<p>At that point I had had to stop and have a little wobbly. So did John – that, or he had something in his eye. </p>
<p>Now, Sherlock says, “Yes, yes,” waving us off. “This experiment is at a precarious moment; I’ll see you shortly.”</p>
<p>‘<em>Shortly’ </em> could mean twenty minutes, or next week. John kisses him on the top of his head, and Sherlock’s left hand wanders up and cups John’s cheek, without looking away from the microscope. I go over and kiss Sherlock on his cheek. He wipes it off with an eyeroll.</p>
<p>“I like the new shade of lipstick on you,” he says absently. “The blue tones in it are better with your skin colour.”</p>
<p>“Ta,” I say, as John takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom.</p>
<p>I would like at this point to go on record and say that John Watson is a fucking fantastic lover.</p>
<p>There are some blokes who learn how to have sex by watching porn, and others who learn by… having sex. Guess which is better? And guess which one John is? He knows that foreplay is not just something for a golf course. His best trick is after making me come two or three times, and then after he’s come, he gets one more orgasm out of me. The first time, all I could do was lie there and say, “Golly,” which I have never, ever said before in my life.</p>
<p>Sometimes Sherlock joins us. Not to have sex, that’s still not his bag, but to watch. It’s not particularly sexy, though – generally he brings a notebook.</p>
<p>Afterwards, we’re lying there trying to get our breath back. There’s a creak at the door, and Sherlock sticks his nose in. He’s in his pyjamas already, the t-shirt inside out.</p>
<p>“Hey love,” John pants. “All right?”</p>
<p>“Yes, quite successful,” he says. For a moment I think he’s talking about us, and wonder if he’s rating my orgasms by the noise that reaches the kitchen, then I remember the experiment. “I believe I’ve just solved a cold case from 1952.”</p>
<p>“Well done,” John says, and reaches over to give Sherlock a hug and a kiss.</p>
<p>“Oh, <em> ugh</em>, John, you’re all sweaty.”</p>
<p>“Of course I’m sweaty, you git,” John says, but without any heat to it. He’s still trying to catch his breath.</p>
<p>“I’m coming over here,” Sherlock says, crossing over to my side.</p>
<p>“Hold on, pass me my jimjams,” I say.</p>
<p>A few moments later, I’ve got a pair of sleep pants and an old concert t-shirt of John’s on, and Sherlock settles in on my other side. John sleeps on his back, but both Sherlock and I are side sleepers, so he curls up behind me. He reaches one incredibly long arm over me, and puts his hand on John’s stomach. I have my head on John’s shoulder, and put my hand on top of Sherlock’s.</p>
<p>Sherlock kisses my shoulder; John kisses my forehead.</p>
<p>“Don’t forget to call your sister in the morning,” Sherlock says into my hair.</p>
<p>“Damn,” I say sleepily. “Thanks.”</p>
<p>When Mum died, I wondered what would happen with all the love I had for her. Boo offered to take it, but then she died too. Then I tried to love him, and he loved me, but it couldn’t go anywhere. There was so much love bouncing around inside me, lost.</p>
<p>As I fall asleep, I finally realize that I’ve found a place big enough for all of it.</p>
<p>They both say goodnight. My name in their voices floats up into the air above us, safe and warm and loved.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> End </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Many thanks to PipMer, my lovely beta, and to everyone else who followed along!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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